Tremble, Little Lion Man
by angelhidingintheshadows
Summary: "...you're not as brave as you were at the start." FBI Special Agent Jared Padalecki is hunting a serial killer who has left a trail of bodies in his wake. Jensen Ackles is baiting his hooks. AU. (AN: Tagged Sam and Dean but actually J2. No pairing.)
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

The point of genesis was in Los Angeles, California. An alleyway in the warehouse district. One victim, the first. A pentagram had been carved into her chest, with obscure symbols added between the star and the circle. The battered state of her body was ignored in favor of focus on this strange symbol and her snapped neck. The police thought it was a satanic cult gone wrong. The murder went unsolved. Special Agent Padalecki wasn't called. The victim's name was Jessica Moore.

* * *

The second and third victims were found a week later in Battle Creek, Michigan. Lisa Braeden and her 15-year-old son Ben. They had been systematically tortured before being strangled in their own beds and the same symbol had been etched over their sternums. The police were stumped; the murdered had not left so much as an out-of-place speck of dust, much less a fingerprint. The call reached Special Agent Jared Padalecki as he stepped into the elevator to go home at 5:01 p.m. on a Friday afternoon.

* * *

"Padalecki."  
"It's Hendrickson. I've got a case for you."  
"Give it to Fitzgerald. I'm not on call because it's officially my weekend off as of one minute ago."  
"Well cancel your plans, pretty boy, because you're the local expert on all things nasty and symbolic and we've got both: three bodies, in two states, and one symbol. The first vic's in L.A. Flight leaves Dulles in 4 hours, so pack your bags."  
"Fuck you, Hendrickson….I'll be on the flight. Email me the details and I'll catch up en route."

* * *

A 1967 Chevrolet Impala pulled out of a gas station along I-94 west. The driver smiled.


	2. Chapter 1

Jared's plane touched down at LAX airport at 12:07 a.m. local time and he stepped out into a night just cool enough to merit the jeans and sweater he had changed into at his apartment in DC. The duffel bag slung over his right shoulder carried a change of street clothes and the god-awful suit and dress shoes he would need to present the proper FBI "image" to the LAPD. He hailed a cab outside the terminal, gave the address of the hotel Hendrickson had booked him into, and sat back to watch the city lights flash past outside the window. A different man might have likened them to fireworks or lightning bugs, lighting up the frigid and unfriendly night. Jared, however, felt the absence of darkness like a physical blow because, although he might live in the city, he had been raised under an open sky and he missed the stars.

Jared checked into his hotel and keyed himself into room 617. It was the cheapest the hotel offered and the joint wasn't exactly 5-star, but it was cleaner than a lot of the places he'd stayed to work prior cases. His room contained a double bed, a desk and chair, a mini-fridge, and a tiny coffee pot. Jared dumped his duffel on the bed and laid his backpack on the table a little more carefully. He stretched towards the ceiling and then reached down to unpack. He hung his suit in the closet and tossed his toilet kit into the bathroom before kicking the duffel bag, remaining clothes and all into the far corner of the room. Organized was not a word generally used to describe Jared Padalecki. His personal habits ranged from slightly untidy to disastrously messy. His work was meticulous, however, and his colleagues respected him for that, as well as for his kindness and general good cheer. Neither of these particular redeeming qualities was on display that night as Jared pulled out his standard-issue laptop, his personal iPad, and the case documents he had printed out at home. He plugged the electronics in to charge and set them aside for the time being. He reached once more into his backpack to retrieve a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen and stared at the blank sheet before violently pushing back his chair and turning into the bathroom. Jared splashed water on his face and dug through his shaving bag until he found the bottle of caffeine pills. He swallowed one down and paused to look at himself in the mirror, pushing his overlong brown hair out of his face. He still looked like a fully functional human being. But it was only day 1.

It was 3:30 a.m. before Jared finally lay down to grab a few hours of sleep before his 9:00 a.m. appointment with the LAPD medical examiner. He spent the intervening hours poring over the pages of case notes he had received from both California and Michigan. The case so far consisted of two incidents with three victims. The events were connected only by the symbol, the battered state of the bodies, and the fact that the death blow had been dealt to the neck. The types of injuries to the bodies were different and Jessica Moore's neck had been broken while Lisa and Ben Braeden had been strangled. The local police departments had been unable to find any forensic evidence that might lead to the killer at either crime scene. The lack of fingerprints implied that he had been wearing gloves and that implied premeditation, but Jared had already surmised that from the presence of the symbol and the developing pattern spread across so wide an area. The cases were baffling enough individually, but the most frustrating part was the fact that no one had been able to connect the victims. They were separated by 2100 miles and they appeared to have no mutual acquaintances or business associations. Neither police department had been able to find a connection between Jessica and the Braedens, and Jared was equally stymied. He decided to sleep on it, in the perhaps vain hope that he would dream the missing link.

* * *

Jared woke up as uninspired as he had gone to sleep and went for a long run through the early morning streets of Los Angeles. The city was just coming to life around him and the streets still held onto a few moments of the relative quiet of the night. The day was dawning grey, with thunderheads already crowding the western horizon as the sun edged up over the lower buildings. Jared could taste the rain hanging in the clouds and in the way the air seemed to stick to his body and clog his lungs, although he couldn't tell whether or not the latter sensation was real or merely claustrophobia induced by the feeling of the city pressing in around him. He had a very bad feeling twisting up from his gut that told him this case was going to wreck whoever took a crack at it, and that was the first moment in which Jared considered just dropping the case. He could take off and just keep running, forever, and it would probably hurt less than what he felt was coming from this case. But although Jared had contemplated running away from work and cases and life before, he had never actually been one to leave unfinished business behind him. He would see this case through until something gave way. For once he was unsure which would break first, the case or his sanity.

* * *

He ran back to the hotel, showered, and dressed up in his FBI monkey suit. He had another caffeine tablet for breakfast and washed it down with a cup of piss-poor coffee from the machine in his room. He considered a cigarette, to calm his nerves, but decided he wasn't anxious enough to restart that habit (yet) and called a cab.

The morgue was in the basement of the police precinct and it smelled heavily of antiseptic and pine-scented air freshener, a mix which just failed to cover the lingering odor of rotting flesh and drew a wince out of the young detective escorting Jared down.

"Sorry about the smell, we had a nasty one yesterday. Dead a month before they found her. Lived alone. Heart attack in her own living room. It's a sad commentary on the state of human relationships that no one noticed her missing."

"Get to the point, Cooper," the detective snapped.

"Touchy this morning, aren't we?" He turned to Jared, "You must be Padalecki. An agent Hendrickson called from the Bureau to notify the precinct you were taking the case. He sounded like a right prick."

"He can be difficult, when it suits him."

"Has he talked to anyone about having that stick removed from his ass? I can recommend a man."

The medical examiner's name was Dr. Gregory Cooper. He was in his thirties, with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and cheekbones that could cut one's finger as well as his tongue could cut egos down to size. He was somewhat legendary as a prickly mix of wit, sex appeal, and impressively diligent, quality work. Jared was inclined to like him.

"You're here to see the body from the alley, I presume? We were just about to release the remains to the family when the call came through from Michigan. We'll hold them here until you make the call; the chief told us you have jurisdiction."

Jared managed a smile, "Thanks for the cooperation, Dr. Cooper, the police and their associates are rarely so eager to share their mysteries."

"I like my cases like I like my men: dark, mysterious, but not too deep. After a while, it's just no fun." He smirked at Jared, who blushed and looked down at his feet like a school girl. The young detective coughed uncomfortably. The sound jolted Cooper and Padalecki back into work mode and the latter pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket.

"I need to know everything you got on this case." He turned to the detective, "When I'm done here I'd like a full briefing on the crime scene and the investigation so far. You might want to go and prep your people."

"Of course, Agent Padalecki. I'll do that right away." He turned awkwardly on his heel in an attempt at a dramatic exit and left the morgue with shoulders slumped in embarrassment.

Jared turned back to look at Cooper, "How green is he?"

"This is the first case he's pulled of this magnitude. I think he's relieved that the feebs are taking over. We're out of our depth on this case, and we go pretty deep on a regular basis."

"I think we're all out of our depth on this one," Jared murmured, "Now, what can you tell me about the death of Miss Jessica Moore?"


End file.
